


Fragile Kingdom Fold

by whereismygarden



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 12,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place to store my ficlet collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moments to Come

**Author's Note:**

> These are little short stories, mostly prompt fills from tumblr, that I wanted to keep here as well.

izzythehutt prompted: Neal discovers the Beauty and the Beast story in Henry’s book and confronts his dad about it?

note: I practically clapped my hands over this, then “Second Star to the Right" made it incredibly hard to fill without crying. There’s some angst potential here. but it was fun writing Nealfire, though I haven’t quite got his voice yet.

The prompt sort of got away from me a bit: hope you like it!

——

It will take a lot of getting used to, this place,  _Storybrooke_ —what a ridiculous name, so unreal.

His time in the Enchanted Forest was filled with more magic than he could deal with, and he ran from it. Of course, that didn’t go as planned, and an older London was more than he could deal with as well. Until he found the Darlings. He needs other people, whether he is Baelfire or Bae-from-the-streets or Neal Cassady.

                But he has people again. He has Emma, sort of, but he doesn’t care to open that can of worms now. Even if he wanted to, he can’t: Tamara doesn’t deserve that. He has his father, sort of, though he scarcely knows what to say to him. Bitter words in New York, and then some brief understanding on Rumpelstiltskin’s deathbed. Maybe there is no greater pain than regret. He may see, because every time he sees Emma, there’s a sort of crushing, strangling feeling in his heart, like happiness being stepped on. It isn’t the ripping, horrible pain of watching his father let go of him, but it’s persistent, unflagging.

                He has a son. Henry. Everything he could have wished for with Emma, if things hadn’t gone so horribly, completely wrong. The boy is playful, hopeful, with a light he recognizes in his eyes—the look of someone who has been let down again and again by his parents, and never quite given up. He’ll try and see that Henry doesn’t have to bear the same kind of pain that he and Emma have. Maybe between the two of them they will be stronger than their pasts.

                Henry wants to swordfight, and the kid was good, he has to admit, though he himself is years out of practice. He’s learned from his grandfather, Emma’s father. The man who is technically hundreds of years younger than him. It’s all the type of thing to induce head-clutching confusion, and he’s tired of it all. He wanted to be done with magic, his past, bury it behind him in a whirl of green light and the pain of betrayal after betrayal, at others’ hands and the ones he committed himself.

                But Henry threw a bit of life into him, with his sharp mind and quick mouth. He can see himself in the kid, as Emma sometimes points out with an exasperated quirk of her mouth:

                 _“He’s your son.”_  And Henry’s a forgiving kid, too welcoming to a father he’s never met, who left his mother in jail. Too forgiving to everyone, according to Emma, but  _her_  parents are glad that he doesn’t hold grudges. His parents hold grudges pretty much forever, so maybe it’s good Henry got that trait from his mother’s side.

                “Do you want to see my book, Neal?” Henry asks him one day, after they finished a bit of rather  _serious_  training—for a town in Maine—with Charming. Then again, the man was at war most of his life. It’s hard to put down the sword and pick up the plowshare, his own father is more than proof of that.

                “Yeah, sounds great,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me a story about one of your friends?” Henry flips through the pages, ending at one illustrated with a girl in a green cloak walking through a forest.

                “This is a good one. You’re in it.” He frowns at Henry’s words.

                “I don’t know this story.” Henry nods, looking serious.

                “You weren’t there for it, but you’re important to it.” He tugs the book away from Neal. “Here, I’ll read it to you.” And he does.

                 _The ogres were drawing near, the atmosphere inside Sir Maurice’s castle thick with fear. One knight mourned the absence of a dealmaker they had tried to call on… ‘I expect I’ll never see you again’… ‘This means it’s true love!’… Rumpelstiltskin replaced the ornate chalice on the pedestal with the only cup that had made its way unscathed through his rage. The little chip at the rim was from earlier, where his captive and love-to-be had dropped it, but the marring only made it more unique, more precious._

                Henry blinks up at him, closing the book. Neal rubs at his eyes, trying to make sense of it all. The woman was the one his father called, back when they had just returned. Beauty and the Beast: he knows the tale, of course, but it was strange to hear, in his son’s voice, hear himself mentioned with such reticence and pain by his father.

                “Henry, can I meet you again in a little while?” he asks, rubbing his head. “I, uh, there’s something I gotta do.”

                “Yup!” the kid agrees cheerfully, and hurries off, leaving Neal to walk slowly back to his father’s shop.

                “Bae,” he hears, almost as soon as he enters, and sees his papa, looking much the same, if a little more polished, at work at a wheel, drawing a line of yarn from his spindle. No gold, though apparently that’s Rumpelstiltskin’s specialty. “It’s good to see you, son.” His papa’s face is so raw, so pained, that he can hardly stand to look at him, because that much pain leads to desperate acts.

                “I’m just here because—I was talking to Henry, and he showed me his book.”

                “Ah,” his papa’s avoiding his gaze, focusing on his work, throwing him the occasional glance. “I can tell you that all the stories are true. I wasn’t a good person, then. I’m still not.” Neal isn’t going to argue about that.

                “No, the one about Belle—the woman you called from here, right? The one who tried to save you?” The wheel stops, and he looks round at Neal, bowing his head.

                “I’ve lost her as well, I fear. All very ironic.” Neal shifts on his feet.

                “You love someone, though. Enough to save yourself from the curse. Why—why couldn’t you do it, when you had another chance? If you regretted not going with me so much, why not free yourself?”

                “Oh, Bae,” his papa’s truly crying now, still the man who had knelt for him and killed for him, but couldn’t trust him. “I needed my power to come here, back to you.”

                “So it was all a matter of bad timing, then? Our whole lives?” He doesn’t know what to say, but maybe he understands a piece of his papa better. This man who’s added on more layers than he can count since he left. He’s still the crippled spinner and the Dark One, but there’s more. Nothing more to say, though.

                “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” His papa smiles slightly, with half his mouth, and Neal nods.

                “I just—thanks for not giving up, you know, even after so long.”

                “Of course.” The wheel turns again, and Neal knows that he can’t say more, not in this moment. But they have more moments, thousands of them, to figure out love and regret and home and family, and this one will do, for now.


	2. Accidents and Apologies

pcuah prompted: Prompt time! Rum and Belle have an argument over (your choice) and the Dark Castle forces them to make up.

note: I really wanted to make this feel like the Disney movie, but I just can’t write that style, so it’s a little more subtle, I guess. I am REALLY sorry this took so long to fill, I kind of kept forgetting it.

Rated G, 300 words.

Belle stumbled over the coal scuttle for the third time in a row, knocking a poker to the ground and skinning her battered knee.

 

Hissing irritably, she set the poker back into its stand, gathered her dusting rag and dignity off the floor, and shook her skirt out. Rumpelstiltskin was sitting in the corner of the room, at his wheel, though at the sound of her tumble, he had stiffened. The wheel turned once more and Belle marched carefully over to one of his shelves, taking the delicate treasures down one at a time and wiping them carefully.

                She nearly dropped a gold-chased, ruby-inlaid silver vase onto the stone floor when Rumpelstiltskin barked a curse from his wheel. Heart pounding, she returned it gingerly to its place and turned towards her master. He was wringing his hand, face angry. A few drops of blood flew from his fingers. The raised platform that he kept the spinning wheel on had collapsed on one corner, driving his finger down onto the spindle’s end.

                “Are you all right?” she asked, then regretted being the first to speak. He had been at fault: he should come back and ask her for forgiveness. He snorted and snapped the fingers of the bleeding hand.

                “All better,” he said, in his nasal, jesting tone. “Are you all right?” He snapped his fingers again and waved the smoke that swirled around them towards her. It slid under her dress, though she couldn’t feel it, and the sting in her knee stopped.

                “Fine,” she said, stiffly. He picked up the gold string he’d made and coiled it around his hand, tapping his booted foot awkwardly.

                “I’ll knock on doors,” he said, grudgingly. Belle blinked, a little surprised.

                “Thank you,” she replied, and turned back to her dusting. The dust was getting all over her hair and front; she would have to take a bath tonight. This time, she would leave something on the door, though she doubted he would forget his promise to knock. 


	3. Bindweed

> Gold and Graham talk about gardening. (I like plants, also this is a metaphor.)

“The field bindweed is found throughout the contiguous United States,” Graham says. “It’s considered a weed, an invasive species.” Gold nods, wondering why he bothered to ask the man. Graham’s an outdoorsman, but apparently he may be a gardener as well, and it is a nice gesture that he stops by to offer the town’s sour pawnbroker information on the vine he’s trying to trim around the small trellis he made from fallen sticks.

                “Is it really?” Gold asks, a note of rueful amusement entering his voice. The small, delicate pink-tinged flowers and bright green, varying leaves of the vine rather appeal to him. It grew up the side of his house years ago, and he pulled it off, coaxed it around the hand-lashed trellis, and watched it grow used to its new place. “I think it’s pretty,” he says with a shrug, and the sheriff smiles, a little half-heartedly (well, he’s a half-hearted man a lot of the time, Gold feels, and no less kind for it).

                “Maine is a little cold for it, which is why it’s not too vigorous here. A summer flower, for us. Mildly toxic, actually.” Gold smiles at that, pleased at the whimsicality of his garden: rosebushes, with yellow and white flowers, grace this side of the house, and his odd little vine—the bindweed.

                “Why is it called the bindweed?” he asks, and the sheriff shrugs.

                “No idea,” he says, and turns to go. “It’s also called a field morning-glory. Flowers don’t last long in the afternoon.”

                Flowers never last long enough for his tastes, but for the first time, he snips a few and puts them into a little glass bottle on the counter of his shop. They wilt and close before noon.


	4. Blue

> Anonymous prompted: Jealous Belle.

                “Are you going again?” she asks him, tea tray in her hands. She sets it down on the table with more rattle than usual and pours his tea with an overly obvious focus. He takes the cup and sips, curious. She doesn’t want to meet his eyes today, busying herself with sugar and lemon for her cup.

                “Yes,” he says. “With the dragon witch.” Belle sniffs at that and folds her arms across her body. “I’m not asking you to even talk to her, you needn’t be afraid,” he says, as close to gentle as he can come.

                Maleficent struts into his hall minutes later with her staff in her right hand, blonde hair curled and twisted in a manner even odder than his own. She favors wide, stiff skirts and plunging necklines, and an unsightly, though striking, coating of blue powder over her eyelids. He can hear the click of her indigo-dyed snakeskin boots

                “Ready, Rumpelstiltskin?” she asks, and smiles coyly at Belle, sitting on the edge of the table with her head high and stiff, her plain dress—blue today, though a soft violet-petal shade he prefers to the dragon’s harsh sapphire—folding softly over her knees. He nods shortly to her and turns to hand Belle his half-empty cup, trying to smile, a little worried at her sour mood.

                “This shouldn’t take long, dearie,” he tosses back at her as he takes Maleficent’s arm and leads her to the door. “Back before dinner,” he giggles, and then a puff of smoke, and they are not in his castle.

                The burning heat of the wide plains they are doing their business on hardly affects him: the crisp, dry curls of hair may wilt, but even in tight leather and silk, he will not sweat. The dragon is giving him an odd, amused look, a private smirk playing about her lips.

                “What?” he snaps, scanning the ground for the plant they are looking for. She chuckles at his question and gives him a condescending look.

                “You’re as thick as any man, aren’t you?” she asks, shaking her head and laughing at his confused look.

                “I like to think the years have had some effect for the better on my mind!” he quips, in his singsong voice, because he doesn’t know what she means.

                “Your little housemaid was quite jealous about you walking away with me,” she says, and he shakes his head. Belle? Jealous for him?

                “What, the evil sorcerer who holds her captive?” he mocks, with a flourish. “I think the heat’s affecting your brain, dearie.” Maleficent only rolls her eyes and mutters to herself, hitching up her skirts and moving forward. He joins her, eyes glued to the ground: he said back before dinner, and though she’s not been cooking long, her food isn’t bad.


	5. Natural Leader

> anonymous prompted: 
> 
> After Rumple’s return from Neverland, he see’s Belle in action as Mayor, and wonders exactly what opportunities he stole away from the princess, when he turned her into his maid. Hurt comfort and a reassuring and strong Belle

                The mayor’s office now sports a pair of heavy, dark bookshelves, stuffed with books on Maine’s climate, laws, and history. The desk is not quite as neat as Regina kept it, lots of papers with highlighter scrawl and post-it notes piled high, but it is usable. Belle has more to do than Regina ever did, keeping one day’s worth of events under her thumb and no more.

                She’s striking in low, dark heels and a professional dress: similar to Regina’s wardrobe, but a softer cut, a stronger shade. She still wears her hair in curls, down her back, decorated with a small clip. He’s glad that she didn’t keep Lacey’s swept-up style, though that’s a completely selfish reason. She tells him about all the projects she’s done, especially proud of the fence around the perimeter.

                “Safer for us and the rest of the world,” she says, a little wistful about not being able to see the world. He sits across from her desk and looks uncomfortably down at his hands. He must say something, but he doesn’t know how to go about apologizing for their entire acquaintance. “What’s the matter?” Of course she notices: she’s perceptive, alert. A natural leader.

                “You’ve done such a good job,” he begins, then falters. She reaches over her desk and squeezes his hand. “I wonder—what damage I did you when I took you away. You would have been their leader.”

                “I would have been dead, along with the rest of my land, if you hadn’t come along.” Her voice holds no regret that he can sense, but still he isn’t at ease.

                “If I had asked for something else—I never even thought about it, Belle! Not until right now. All the things I’ve taken away from you, I can’t even think of them all.” She walks around the desk and puts her arms around his shoulders.

                “We can’t change the past, Rumple,” she says. “I’m perfectly content with the fact that I wasn’t lady of my people. I’m leading them all, now, anyway.” He leans into her touch, trying to be comforted by her words, but still uneasy.

                “I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done to you, everything that’s happened to you because of me.” She kisses the top of his head and presses her cheek to his with a sigh.

                “You’re forgiven. Just don’t try and make me leave again.” He lets his own breath out raggedly and his hand reaches up to stroke her hair.

                “Of course not, sweetheart.”

                He tells her he loves her, and she says the same, and he relishes that they can say that now, without the pain of parting or reuniting to tear at them.


	6. Close Quarters

> anonymous prompted: 
> 
> After Rumple comes back from Neverland, with Neal in tow, Neal moves into the pink house with Rumple and Belle. Cue adorable floof family awkwardness, discussions and contemplations about the merits of soundproofing the master bedroom, family breakfasts, and Neal and Belle bonding.

_note:_  I know this probably isn’t what you wanted, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

-

                Neal knocked on the door to Emma’s place and blinked to find Snow White standing there, smiling, hand on the open door.

                “Uh… is Emma here?”

                “No, but she isn’t very often.” Neal thought he detected a little passive-aggressive disappointed mother shining through the bright smile Snow gave, so he nodded uneasily.

                “Thanks. Good-bye, then,” he said, and turned to go, swinging his arms restlessly as he hurried downstairs. He found Emma around the back of the building, just sitting and looking at the forest. She gave him her sad smile when she saw him, and he winced. Well, she had every right to be sad at the sight of him. One heroic portal jump might undo some of ten years of damage, but not all of it.

                “Hey,” she said, welcomingly enough. “What were you doing up there?”

                “Looking for you, of course.” The bench was cold, as was everything in Maine, so he leaned against Emma, who leaned back, smiling a little more happily. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

                “I love my parents, but sometimes—what are you laughing about?” Neal shrugged and grinned.

                “’Cause I was looking for you to get out of  _my_  dad’s house.” She elbowed him in the ribs, rolling her eyes.

                “Neal, that house is huge, and he’s so nervous about upsetting you he doesn’t dare ask you to even eat with him. David and Mary Margaret hardly want to see me out of their sight.” She flung her head back and sighed heavily. “I don’t want to upset them by moving out, but it’s a  _tiny apartment._ ”

                “Well, I’m leaving the pink house in a few days, I think. Sound  _carries_  in there.” Emma blinked, then understood, and made a sour face.

                “Neal, please, really, I didn’t need that,” she protested, and shook her head disgustedly.

                “I mean, I’d get along fine with Belle if I didn’t have to look her in the face the morning after I’ve heard her screaming my dad’s name, you know?” Emma nodded.

                “Yeah, uh, I got it the first time, thanks.” He snorted and shifted on the icy bench, trying to work some feeling back into his numbed buttocks and thighs.

                “Don’t tell me you don’t have the same problem.” Emma turned and smirked at him, shaking her head.

                “Noise canceling headphones. Best fifty bucks I ever spent.”   


	7. Mutual Lying

> anonymous prompted: 
> 
> Could you maybe do something with Gold being married to Milah but is having an affair with Belle or something like that maybe

          He should stop: they were trying to work through it, this time. Even though Bay was all but grown, and it didn’t matter for his sake anymore. Mila had had her share of lovers: more than him, he was sure, and he knew that the young sailor whose hand she had bandaged that once had caught her eye. He was handsome, tall, and scruffy: everything Mila liked, and he couldn’t fault her for it.

          Not when he couldn’t tear himself away from Isabelle French. She was young, too: in her twenties, sweet, no-nonsense, and beautiful. He had met the librarian a few weeks after her move to Storybrooke, and a few weeks after that, he had kissed every inch of her body and made love to her in both their cars, her apartment, his house, the back room of the shop, and her office.

          Mila had her late nights too: when he had returned as quietly as he could from Belle’s apartment at one in the morning, she had snuck in just ten minutes later. He had feigned sleep when she slipped into bed. He couldn’t say anything to her, though she smelled like seawater and the beer on tap at the bar by the docks. He smelled like tea and Belle’s rose perfume, no doubt.

          He should stop: Belle was getting uncomfortable with it, with the sneaking around. She wanted to go eat in the diner together, not just have tea in private. She wanted to hold his hand in front of people, not content to only touch him in bed. Maybe Mila’s man wanted that too, wanted to take her on his boat and take her out to dinner.

          Well, the two of them were perfect cowards, damned to live half with each other and half without. He wondered, sometimes, if one of them would get the courage to leave for good. He wondered whose lover would leave first. He hoped it wasn’t Belle.


	8. Learned Her Hands in a Fairy-tale

> anonymous prompted: 
> 
> Poetry prompt for Rumbelle: “And her voice is a string of colored beads, or steps leading into the sea"

Whoever sent this needs to tell me, because I want to hug them forever. This is a line from Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem "[Witch-Wife](http://www.bartleby.com/131/15.html)," and I hope I did it a vague kind of justice!

Rumbelle: he thinks about her in the Dark Castle. A very light T.

                Belle’s hair was growing longer, falling in rich curls nearly to her waist. All winter, it had been half-hidden under scarves, swept back with string and ribbons, but with the peeking-out of white crocuses and green spikes of irises, she let loose her tresses. They fell over her back like water or willow branches, and caught the sunlight when she went outside to poke at the gardens or hang clothes to dry. The light made them tint golden and copper for brief moments, and the wind would whip them up into cloudy tangles.

 

                His spinner’s hands longed to bury themselves in the soft fibers: he had been a weaver once, too, and he itched to weave Belle’s locks into braids and nets and lace. He would never work with something softer, he was sure, though he stitched gold into silk and tried his hand at pulling cobwebs.

                For her part, Belle seemed unaware of the appeal of her hair, simply pulling it back with a ribbon or scrap of thread when it got in her way. He did not see why she needed so much hair, when it must take time to brush and wash and braid. But again, the last thing he wanted was for her to rid herself of it, so he simply looked at it.

                The studying of her hair turned into noticing the way it set off her face, which was shading from ivory to a pleasant brown with the time she spent outside, either at her duties or reading in the sunlight. Her arms were darkening too, but under her clothes she would still be as pale as the pea blossoms in the garden she tended. Such thoughts struck him as indecorous at best, and though he was a monster, it still wasn’t right to think of his maid and how the skin over her spine would be pale but her neck brown, and both warm.

                So to not think of her pretty frame, with or without clothes and tan, he let himself notice the life in her eyes, the fearsome intelligence that half-slumbered behind their clear blue light. He brought her the trickier volumes from the library, leaving them on the table as idle recommendations, and saw her narrow her eyes and bite her lips when she held them in her lap by the fireside at night.

                Thinking about her eyes, either wide with excitement over something she was speaking about or narrowed in concentration, was no good either, nor was thinking about her lips. Such pretty lips, too, pink and soft-looking, especially after she’d been drinking and licked them darker, or after she’d been working and sweat beaded over and around them.

                She sang, though not often, and he was rather desperate to notice something acceptable about her now, because the idea of not noticing her was ludicrous. So he listened to her sing, her voice trailing around corners and down the stairs, falling and breaking when she lifted something up, softening when she concentrated. Her voice was color through the drab sounds of the castle: melody making its way through the squeaking turn of the wheel and the scraping of mortar and pestle against bark and powder. Her voice, and everything she said or sang, was a path leading him to deep cool water that he wanted to drink from, but he was afraid of falling in and drowning. 


	9. Salvageable

Summary: Starting off on the journey to Sherwood Forest in “Lacey."

Rumbelle, rated G.

                “And because I am a showman, I’ll do it with  _his bow_! And because this is _your fault_ , it’ll be you and your rags along to wipe it up!” Belle couldn’t help but flinch back from his shout, and then he was storming off, grinding his teeth in his rage and clenching the bow so hard she feared it might break in his hand. Afraid of angering him too much—for he was truly angry, now, the little veneer of civility and calm he had worn when they had dealt stripped away by his own hand—she trailed slowly in his wake, wary of drawing too close to him.

                “What are you waiting for, girl?” he roared from somewhere outside the hallway. “I was being serious!” Belle picked up her skirts and hurried forward, shivering as she moved from the relative warmth of the castle into the cold autumn air. Rumpelstiltskin was standing next to a driverless carriage, arms folded and foot tapping. She half-stumbled over the wrecked cobbles of the stableyard and managed to right herself a scant number of inches from her irate master. He snorted, tossed the bow into the carriage, and held his hand out. Belle took it, with a little trepidation, but he only helped her up, bracing the small of her back with his other hand.

                “How are you going to find him?” she asked, as he settled irritably across from her and stamped his foot on the carriage floor. The carriage shook, and rattled forward, tossing Belle back against the cushions. “And how are we driving?”

                “Best not to think of the horses the same way you think of normal horses, dearie,” he said sourly. “And I’ll be finding him with  _magic_ , as the valuable wand he stole—because of you—is positively reeking with it.” He snapped his fingers suddenly; purple smoke bloomed around his fingers, then coalesced into a yellow and green cloak and a pair of tan leather gloves. He tossed them into her lap. Belle only blinked at him, fingering the leaf patterned brocade of the fine cloak.

                “Or you can freeze, but I would be disappointed if you only lasted three days,” he said snappishly, and Belle smiled a little, pulling the cloak over her shoulders and the gloves on. He was still glaring at the bow, her, and the road before them, but she couldn’t suppress a shred of hope. Maybe her thoughts would change, or swing back and forth, but he’d helped her up and warmed her. There was a man under the monster: a cruel, broken, and harsh man, but a salvageable one.


	10. Quiz

> anonymous prompted: 
> 
> Cursed!Rumbelle She wonders if he actually reads the books he checks out from the library - because he takes one every single day. Cue impromptu pop quizzes from the Librarian, a series of increasingly in depth conversations over the course of months, and Mr Gold finds out that his semi stalkery little crush might just have a chance to go beyond the realms of his fantasies.

This is like over two months late and not really what you wanted, whoops! Rated G.

_January:_

                “Did you like the Rutherford, Mr. Gold?” He blinked at the librarian’s question, a little distracted by watching her pale purple nails and small hands write the due date down inside today’s book.

                “Um, yes,” he decided, and tried to smile. She nodded and capped her pen.

                “I think his characterization is a little dull, myself, but to each his own!” He barely resisted turning his head as he walked out, to see if she had turned away from the circulation desk and given him a view of her hair. 

 

_Early February:_

                “Your shop doesn’t keep you very busy, does it?” she asked one day, handing over the day’s choice:  _The Left Hand of Darkness._  He frowned.

                “Why would you say that, Ms. French?” he replied, tucking the book under his arm and sliding his library card back into his wallet. She smiled at him.

                “Well, you’re in here at least three times a week. Either you never sleep or you read a lot at work.” He fiddled with the head of his cane and wondered if she suspected that he only came in to speak with her. They never said more than ‘hello,’ and goodbye,’ but he was nearly fifty, and it couldn’t hurt to indulge his crush on the librarian. Asceticism wore thin on an aging body, and it had never been his preference.

                “Just searching for something good,” he said. There was no pattern to his selections: he chose books with muted covers and interesting titles, nothing—he hoped—that would invoke her scorn. She shook her head, then brightened and tapped the cover of today’s selection.

                “I love this one,” she said, and he headed away with a thought to maybe flick through this one.

_Mid February:_

                “Ah, I finally get to return Ms. le Guin’s masterpiece to my shelves,” she said, when he brought it back. “Enjoy it?” He ventured a smile.

                “It took a while, but I liked it,” he admitted. “Any other recommendations, Ms. French?” She noted down the return in her ledger and returned the book to her shelving cart.

                “Please, it’s Belle,” she insisted. “Do you want more tragedy or something lighter?” Her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, and he had to concentrate to answer her question.

                “Lighter,” he said, completely entranced, aware that his staring was a little rude. She fussed with her hair and nibbled on her lower lip.

                “Well, I think that if you want more science fiction you could try some of Tiptree’s stories. Some light, some dark. So you have a transition from the gloom and doom and snow.”

                “Quite,” he said, and stood transfixed when she went to find the volume for him.

_Late mid February:_

                He finished the collection quickly, and dared to bring up one of the stories on his next visit. In truth, he did have time in his shop to read, and if it wasn’t as impressive as fiddling with something dire looking when people walked in, so be it.

                She wanted to talk deeply about the stories, and they had been too complex for him to understand after three days of quickly taking in the plots. She tapped a sentence in the middle of a page, trying to explain her favorite story in the collection.

                “It’s about information and sacrifice. The father told him. You got that, right? It was one of the fathers.” Gold shook his head, genuinely bemused. Belle’s whole face lit up when she spoke about stories, and though her words were compelling, her visage was distracting.

_Late February:_

                Belle was shy out of her element: the self-assured librarian tugged on her bracelets and twisted her hair around her fingers. Gold wasn’t in his element either: he’d suggested—the words had been half-whispered, he was so nervous—that perhaps they should get out of the library and talk elsewhere. But now all he could think about was that they were sitting across from each other at a table at Granny’s and it looked like they were on a date. For all that Belle had brought her much-battered copy of  _Till We Have Faces_  to discuss, she was a little nervous in her speech.

                “For all that it’s a very obvious allegory, it’s still, a very good story,” she faltered, and turned her face away from a curious look from across the room. “I’m sorry, I just feel that everyone’s looking at us.” Gold nodded and held his hand out.

                “We can leave.” She didn’t want to see him in public: that was fine. Clearly meeting for dinner had been a poor, overbold choice, and she was regretting accepting him. He was hardly a catch, with a bad leg and bad temper, though he tried to keep that side of himself from Belle.

                “Let’s finish,” she suggested. “Then we can go to yours or mine and have our talk without an audience.” He somehow managed to accept that she was suggesting they spend more time together without spilling his glass of water, and merely nodded.

                “You don’t want to give a lecture on Lewis to the diner?” he teased, and she laughed: a clear, beautiful sound, though it ended in a snort, which he thought no less charming.

                “Maybe I’d just rather talk with you,” she said, a flirty note in her voice, and her eyes looked a little hunted as she searched his face. He let himself smile at her, as warmly as he could.

                “The feeling’s mutual,” he said, and raised his glass. “To many more talks.”


	11. All I Need Is A Beautiful Girl

> screwballninja prompted: 
> 
> Ruby meets Lacey in the Rabbit Hole instead of Rumple.

Red Lace! (title from the Van Halen song “Beautiful Girls")

Rated T for flirting (I won’t take it past this because honestly I am too straight to write any other kind of sexytimes)

                Usually, bars like this weren’t to Red’s tastes. But they were a bit to Ruby’s, and so she relaxed and let the wilder part of her (well, maybe Ruby was just the wolf and the girl mixed up. She could take a cue from  _that_  thought) rise to the surface. The music was loud, and crass, and with a rocky, danceable beat. Not that there was much dancing at the Rabbit Hole. She ordered two vodka shots, downed them (no one carded in Storybrooke, even  _before_ they knew themselves, and she had been drinking around town since she was sixteen, or thought she had been) and let that warm her up to the murky-lit, smoke-clouded place.

 

                She was nursing a beer and eyeing everyone who walked past when she saw a familiar face leave the pool table and head to the bar. Belle—in a backless top and tight jeans, of all things—called out for a glass of whiskey and turned to engage the sleazy blond man leaning on the bar next to her. Red snuck closer and heard her introduce herself as Lacey and blow the man off with a sharp tongue.

                Huh. Imagine that. The curse had woken up to play with Belle, and she was _interesting_. The wolf pricked its ears and Red sidled into his abandoned place.

                “Lacey, right?” she asked. The other woman turned and eyed her: she smelled like hairspray and whiskey. Her makeup was a lot darker than what Belle wore: more like Ruby’s preferences.

                “Yup, that’s me,” she said agreeably. “I don’t think I know  _you_.”

                “Ruby,” she offered, thinking that part of her liked this better than plain Red. “Can I buy you a drink? That ooze Keith never did.” Lacey smiled with her mouth a little open and her tongue between her teeth.

                “You may,” she said, and winked. “What brings you here tonight?” The bartender brought Lacey Ruby’s proffered drink: a bloody red concoction in a narrow shot glass (She thought it was strange that she preferred red liquids when the sight of them had turned her stomach back in the old world. Though it was one of Ruby’s advantages that she enjoyed).

                “Just, ah, looking,” she indicated the drink and rested her chin on her hand. Lacey eyed it suspiciously.

                “And what is this?” Red smiled, putting the wolf into it.

                “The red-headed slut: cranberry juice, peach schnapps, and jägermeister.” Lacey snickered at the name, and tossed it back happily.

                “Well, I’ve always liked red things, sluts or otherwise.” She reached out and toyed with Red’s dyed hair, then sat back. “Got your eye on any of the guys here?” Her tone indicated that the guys at the Rabbit Hole were beneath everyone’s notice.

                “Kind of done with guys for now, actually,” Red said, and Lacey grinned.

                “Men! Who needs ‘em?” Red gave her the sharpest smile she could manage in return.

                “I’ve been called a maneater, but they just can’t handle me,” she quipped. Lacey jumped down from the stool, completely steady on her feet, looking pleased.

                “How about a game of pool? And then you can show me your sharp teeth.” Red nodded, wondering at the aptitude of her turn of phrase, and put her arm around Lacey’s shoulders, drawing her close to whisper,

                “Honey, just be glad it’s not the full moon.”

                Lacey paused at the jukebox, played Van Halen’s “Beautiful Girls,” and all but dragged Red to the pool table.


	12. The Same Sea

> screwballninja prompted: May I prompt something rumbelle and Bobby Darin’s classic “Beyond the Sea"?

Rated G, with bonus angst. Belle sits by the sea while Rumpelstiltskin is in Neverland.

"It’s far beyond the stars, it’s near beyond the moon." -Bobby Darin, ‘Beyond the Sea.’

                The gentle lapping of the cold Atlantic at the docks calmed Belle down, no matter what was going on in town. Today, the Blue Fairy had dared to claim that as the oldest and most knowledgeable of Storybrooke’s residents, she should have authority. Belle had spent two hours explaining the laws of the United States and Maine to her: a difficult task when she was only just becoming familiar with them herself. It put her in mind of trying to argue with ambassadors who came to her father’s castle, except they had shown some decorum.

 

                She had her dinner with her, a container of pasta salad that she had brought to eat before she went home. The sun was getting low behind her, throwing her shadow far out over the water. She lifted a hand and watched her shadow-hand stretch out over blue waves, tinted red and glinting orange with sunset.

                It was said, by poets in this world and the other, that the same sea touched every shore. She had looked at globes and knew that this sea didn’t touch the grey-white beaches of her home, nor the sands of Neverland. Yet the portals they opened took in water, and received it. Somewhere in the rocking waves that hugged the docks, there was a molecule of water from Neverland swirling, and somewhere in the seas that Rumpelstiltskin sailed, water from Storybrooke floated alone through the magic-filled waters of that realm.

                She wondered if the stars were different: only one was visible in the sky. The planet Venus, according to the scant reading she’d had time for on astronomy. She had watched the stars as a young girl, but had not learned their shapes, though she remembered them as brighter than these stars. These stars were dimmed by man’s insistence on lighting the night himself, brighter than a torch held by a traveler. She could not remember the constellations of the Enchanted Forest: she had been locked up in starless, skyless rooms for too long, with the only stars those she could call up behind closed eyes.

                The moon was faint, a low white curve hanging over the water, and she felt that she could reach up and pull it back to find another door to Neverland. Or some other world. The whole ocean stretched before her, but there was a line out there, that sparkled purple when one took a boat too close. The fruits of the protection spell Rumple had left her.

                Surely, despite water and stars, he was looking up at the same moon? The moon was always the same, every shadow constant as it moved through darkness and light. A new moon would unsettle the eye, though for no discernible reason. The placement of a crater here instead of there would niggle at the brain until the eyes became used to the difference.

                She leaned back and tried to think about Neverland: would it have islands in its dangerous seas, places with bright sunlight and golden sands and blue waters? All things Rumpelstiltskin would scorn: even had he not been the Dark One, he preferred shade and moss and cool air. Once, they had lain side by side under the tree in his garden, toying with the other’s hair and half-sleeping. She had been skittish after years locked away, and he anxious over finding his son. That seemed preferable now, with her grief over forgetting, and Lacey, and losing him again, and his that eclipsed hers: the final loss of Baelfire, right after he had been found again.

                Jefferson found her crying softly, curled up on the edge of the dock, his daughter in tow. Grace took her hand in her own small ones and squeezed gently.

                “Miss Belle, Papa has tea for you,” she said softly. She sat up, embarrassed to be the mayor, teary on the edge of town, but Jefferson had found her in a patient’s clothes and released her from her cell: he had seen worse. She smiled weakly at Grace’s comment.

                “I know better than to drink your papa’s tea,” she teased, and the man in question sipped from the travel mug in his hand before passing it to her.

                “Non-caffeinated, but warming,” he assured her, and sat down, holding his daughter close. The lines of thirty-odd years of madness were still etched on his face, though smoother, she thought, than their first meeting. “Love comes back,” he said suddenly, looking out at the sea, and kissed his daughter’s head.

                “I wonder,” she said. He thought he was going to die. He nodded.

                “The heart guides you home. And you and me, we both tend to waiting.” She stood up, legs protesting, and he held out a hand to steady her.

                “I’d wait forever,” she said, and hugged her arms to her stomach at the thought. They’d said forever often, she especially, but it was a harsh forever, to wake and sleep and live alone, forever, if necessary.

                “You won’t have to,” he said confidently, and led Grace away. She followed, with her tea and empty dinner container, thinking that when her current forever became a shared forever, they should go somewhere with fewer seas and portals and roads away. They could live together in quiet, without worrying about water and stars and moon being necessary to touch one another.


	13. One Calm Summer Night

> anonymous prompted: AU where Gold’s name is Richard Cory, from the [poem](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/richard-cory/), and either Belle or Emma saves him.

Isabelle French sees Mr. Gold every week, but one day he is different.

Trigger warning for suicide, rated T.

“ _You know that you are not alone, need you like water in my lungs." -_ Brand New, ‘Play Crack the Sky’

                Isabelle French didn’t enjoy her job at the county clerk’s office, typing and filing, but it paid the bills. She didn’t like the sickly light of the fluorescent ceilings, or the lists of figures and names on endless lists of paper. The edges rasped at her fingertips in a way her books never did: she never had a papercut from reading at night, but her palms were littered with them. She saw sad stories all day long: people going through divorces, losing their homes, getting sick. Life was long and trite and dull, at the clerk’s office: a string of numbers, a net worth, a criminal record and a birth certificate. Life in stories was short and bright and deep, told in heartbeats and heartbreaks and chance. She much preferred the life of stories, and people said she was in a daze, head in the clouds. She was never promoted.

                The job did have its benefits: she got to see a lot of people, and try and make their days easier. She brought water and tea and crackers to people waiting for their licenses to be renewed or papers to be processed. She saw Mr. Gold every day: he was always there on business, since he owned so much land and so many properties. He was her landlord, in fact, though she’d never needed to call him. The faucets and heating and lights never failed in her apartment.

                His full name was Richard Cory Gold: no one else knew, but she signed and stamped and filed and knew everyone’s full name. He always wore a suit, even in the middle of summer: his tie always matched the square of cloth in his breast pocket. His fastidiousness made her smile when she saw him.

                Gold did not smile at her, or at anyone. The lines of his face were worried, hard. She wondered why: he had money and land and power. Most of the people that came to the office were jealous of his life, since they were so consumed by money troubles.

                “Tea?” she asked him, when he came in on Thursday morning and sat slowly on one of the chairs in the lobby. He declined politely, as always. “Water?” she tried. He blinked and turned to look at her face, his dark eyes very, very tired.

                “Please,” he said simply, and she almost jumped in surprise. He never asked for anything. Still, she handed him a paper cup from the cooler with an almost-steady hand, and his fingers scraped over hers, making her pulse flutter. Not from fear—she was not afraid of him, despite his cool manner and trim assurance in his fine suits.

                The television in the corner was tuned to the news, down low, and it made her head and eyes hurt. The computer she used made them hurt too, but that was part of her job and there was nothing to be done about that. She switched it off, with a huff.

                “Did you want that on?” she asked guiltily. He hadn’t been watching, but that was no guarantee. “The noise aggravates me.” He shook his head.

                Isabelle didn’t know the nature of today’s business, simply took his papers, which were marked for the real estate department, and delivered them to the appropriate office. He was still standing in the lobby, leaning on his cane. She noticed, beneath his rich suit and handsome face, that his hair was half grey and his frame over-thin. She wanted, with an itching in her fingers, to let him lean against her—he looked pained, lost, hand clenched around his cane.

                “Good-bye, Miss French,” he said, as usual, and she smiled.

                “Good-bye, Mr. Gold,” she said. “I’ll see you later.” He only raised an eyebrow and said,

                “Perhaps,” before walking out. She stared blankly for a few minutes, then remembered she had to prepare the papers for the Chevaliers’ court hearing that afternoon.

                Maybe she would have seen the note sooner if she did not always have a mess on her desk and her head in the clouds. As it was, it was five, and she was straightening up, when she saw a folded-over piece of heavy stationery resting under the cup full of her pens. She plucked it from its mooring and saw a short message written in a messy hand. There was a new pen in her cup, a heavy, expensive one that felt wonderful in her hand.

                 _Isabelle, thank you so much for your patience through the years. RC Gold._

She frowned. Why would Mr. Gold leave her a note now? He had been coming in… she wasn’t sure how long, just that it was every week, since forever. He never said anything except his reason for being in the office and to decline her offers of refreshment. But he’d taken water today. And muttered at her as he left. And snuck a note into her office. And left her a gift.

                She didn’t lock her door when she sprinted out of the office, wishing her job didn’t have her sitting behind a desk all hours. Her feet burned in her tight flat shoes, but she let the pain slide to the back of her mind.

                She knew where he lived: she addressed all his mail from the office. It was nearly a mile and a half, down streets with no sidewalks and up a considerable hill, but she didn’t slow down. She was too uncoordinated to ride a bike and too poor to own a car, so she ran, as fast as she could, her purse still over her body.

                She was panting too hard to shout when his house came into view, and everything looked normal. The lawn was neat, his car was in the driveway. Isabelle hurtled up the porch steps, hair undone and sticking to her neck where it didn’t cloud up into a fuzzy mess. The front door was unlocked.

                  Knocking didn’t even cross her mind: she threw open the door and rushed in, half-gasping, half-screaming his name.

                 _A warning sign for suicide may be a sudden deviation from normal routine. Also significant may be the leaving of messages or notes, or giving away property._

                He was stretched out on the kitchen floor, blood seeping slowly from the side of his head. His eyes were still open, pupils massive and unfocused. His right hand was curled loosely around the gun, and Isabelle crouched and pulled it from his unresisting hand, tearing off her sweater and holding it to the wound against his temple. Some clinical part of her could see that he had missed, or shaken, or lost half his nerve: the rest of her wanted to sob and shake.

                “No, no, no,” she whispered quietly, fishing her cell phone from her purse with a trembling hand. “No, you can’t, you have to live, come on, hang on.”

                The dispatcher was calm, though she screamed the address and name into the receiver, otherwise she would have dissolved into sobbing incoherency. Mr. Gold blinked at her, as if trying to place her.

                “It’s Isabelle French,” she sobbed. “Come on, Richard, just hold on till they come. Don’t leave me.” She wasn’t sure what he would want to hear, or what she should do, so she held her bloody sweater to the entry wound and whispered to him through the tears pouring down her face. “You don’t want a boring trite life, and I can’t put the stamp on your death certificate, all right? We can have a story,” she promised, and squeezed his hand, the one that was dusty with powder residue. “We can be friends or enemies or partners in crime or lovers. Or if you do want a boring life we can do that too, we can just see each other every week and you can turn down tea and crackers. Please, just stay here.”

                She was still talking and sobbing hysterically, crushing his hand in hers, when the ambulance arrived. The paramedics pushed her away, gently, and the sheriff drove her to the hospital, with her hands full of Mr. Gold’s blood. One of the nurses took her to a sink to wash it off, and then made her swallow a pill and a glass of water.

                She came back to herself in a chair in a pale blue room, where a television played the news, turned down low. She stood up reflexively and switched it off, feeling like she’d woken up, though she’d been awake for a long time. It was ten thirty at night, according to a clock on the wall.

                The nurse had given her something powerful and left her in Gold’s room. He was lying in bed, a few feet away, eyes closed, head bandaged. They had probably cut off his hair, she reflected numbly, to remove the bullet. Her feet tingled; she pulled off her shoes to examine the blisters on the balls and heels of her feet. Her frenzied run to his house had left her legs aching and feet sore, and she limped a little as she walked to his bed on bare feet.

                The monitor next to him beeped slowly and steadily, and though he looked small in the blue gown, under the rough fabric of hospital bedding, his chest rose and fell steadily. Isabelle brushed her fingers over the hand she had clutched, then lowered her head to kiss it.

                “I’m sorry,” she said: there must be so many things to be sorry for, if his life was so bleak that he did not want to live it. The lines of loneliness and bitterness traced his eyes and mouth, and she wanted to wipe them away, trace new ones, of repose and calm if not happiness.

                She did not dare reach up to his face, not when half of him was covered in bandages and a little touch might upset pressure and cause him to bleed. Her sleeves were brownish red with his dried blood, and when she closed her eyes, she could only see him lying on his kitchen floor, eyes open and unseeing.

~

                Gold woke up confused, limbs fuzzy and heavy, to a high beeping and darkness. He was lying in a bed, and somewhere close he could hear someone breathing, and the weight of a hand over his.

                He had not believed in an afterlife, but if he was not alone, maybe he was in heaven.


	14. Chapter 14

This place by the sea is not where Belle expected them to end up, but she is not unhappy about it. Emma, Henry, David, and Mulan know where they are and who they are, and visit from time to time.

The house is small but lovely, snug against the cold winds that will come in winter. Their flock have a warm barn, and the wood and the well keep them in fuel and water. She and Forest, a teenager from the village, tend the sheep, and Rumple spins. His wheel only holds wool these days. He has stopped his quest to forget.

Belle stands ankle-deep in the little waves of the low tide, trying to ease her aching feet. She hears Rumple walk down behind her, and he wraps his arm around his shoulders.

"Are you okay?" he asks. She flexes her ankle.

"My feet hurt more these days." She smooths a hand over her growing belly, and Rumple’s arm tightens around her. "This helps."

"Rest more," he says, eyes worried. She leans against his shoulder for a moment.

"I don’t think so," she replies. He fidgets with his cane, a frown forming on his face.

"I shouldn’t have given up my power," he says. "I can’t provide for you."

"No," she says. "This is better. Maybe a little harder, but safer, and better."

He hugs her again, as the waves splash against their calves. He has too many scars, her love, and this little house by the sea, with their sheep and their child to come, is the best place she can think to heal them.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation Cobra, 2.0  
> samoyedjack prompted: Lacey is not a cookies and hugs kind of grandma, but she is fun.

Henry wasn’t sure what had called away his moms, dad, and grandparents, as well as enough of Storybrooke to leave him with Lacey in Gold’s shop. He wasn’t sure if she was watching him or he was watching her, either.

 

She wore even shorter dresses than Belle had, but stockings as well. She was sitting on the edge of a bench, swinging her legs slowly and sipping from a glass. He hopped up beside her, wondering how mad everyone would be if he told her the truth. If she would believe him.

"You’re Gold’s grandkid?" she asked, raising one eyebrow, like Belle.

"Yup," he confirmed. "Can I have something to drink?" He thought she was more likely to let him try adult-only beverages than anyone else.

"That’s probably not a good idea," she said, glancing down at her glass.

"Please?" he tried. Her face turned blank for a second, then she handed him her glass.

"Try a sip before I pour you a glass," she said. Shocked at his good fortune, Henry reached out eagerly and took a big sip.

_UGH._

He spit all over his sleeve, trying not to throw up, choking, eyes streaming.

"That’s disgusting!" Lacey snorted and took another sip from the retrieved glass.

"Then I guess you don’t need a glass," she said, slyly, and he gathered that this had been her idea from the start. He approved of the trickery, and decided to fill her in on Operation Cobra, version 2.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> endangeredslug prompted: " storybrooke rumbelle. she takes him out for pancakes, he doesn't have the heart to tell her he's had them before because she's so excited about it."

Their fourth day together, Belle woke him with a poke to his shoulder, her hair already brushed, nightgown replaced with a dress. Her eyes were bright and alert, and he glanced over at the clock. Seven-fifteen. He sat up, confused.

"Are you all right?" he asked. The past days, he’d woken up before her, and she’d wandered downstairs for tea with bleary eyes and tousled hair.

 

"I have a surprise for you," she smiled knowingly. Judging by the fact that she was dressed, the surprise would not be taking place in bed, so he got up to dress.

They walked into town, Belle stopping them outside the diner, eyes shining. He didn’t know how Granny’s could be the surprise, but he followed Belle anyway, letting her sit them next to a window. Ruby came up, and Belle ordered them both pancakes, and leaned against him in the booth, smiling still. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, enjoying her mood.

The pancakes arrived shortly, in stacks with butter already melting atop them.

"These are so delicious," Belle said, clasping her hands together in delight, then picking up the jug of syrup and pouring it over hers. "I hope you like them, Rumple, I tried them yesterday, they were wonderful." She cut into hers and watched him expectantly, and something bittersweet clenched around his tattered heart. He picked up his fork and knife, slicing off a piece, and chewed it slowly. 

Belle was still grinning, and he swallowed and smiled back.

"It is delicious, sweetheart, thank you." She sat back, satisfied, and began working on her plate in earnest.

He ended up doing more watching her than eating, and when a faint trace of syrup ended up on her cheek, he kissed it away, making her blush and smile even more.

"A perfect surprise," he said, trying to convey all the love in his heart for her, all his gratitude for her wish to make him happy, all his hope that she enjoy everything this world could offer her.

"Eat," she encouraged, and he did.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rated T. repeatinglitanies prompted: "rumplestiltskin is stung by a jellyfish residing in his dark lake. as it is no ordinary jellyfish, he would need a special ingredient to sooth and heal the sting: a maiden’s saliva. and in an instant, his thoughts go to his pretty maid, belle…."

Wonderful. Rumpelstiltskin held his hand to his chest, curled loosely to avoid rubbing together the angry red sores that had risen up all over his fingers and palm. 

 

The pearl jellyfish in his lake weren’t aggressive, they were jellyfish, yet he still felt as if the lashing tentacles that had encircled his hand had been deliberate, not a fault of current and turbulence.

He didn’t bother walking back to the castle, simply reappeared in the great hall, disturbing Belle. She leapt to her feet as he slumped down in a chair, muddy boots dampening and dirtying the fine carpet.

"Are you well?" she fluttered forward, tilting her head to try and look at his hand. "Oh, gods." He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

"I’ll be fine." He shifted, trying not to show the burning pain he felt on his face, and flapped his good hand at her. "Spit on that."

"Why?" She examined the handkerchief, a simple piece of colored cloth, as if it held the answer.

"The sting is from a pearl jellyfish," he said. "The best cure is a maiden’s saliva." Belle twisted the cloth around her hands, frowning.

"That sounds absurd," she protested. He gritted his teeth.

"Just do it, dearie, I’ll explain the magic later." She looked away.

"I can’t." The burning felt as though it went down to his bones.

"What are you talking about?" he snapped, trying to focus.

"I’m not a maiden."  _Those_ words were enough of a surprise to distract him for a moment. _  
_

"Oh really?" He tried to idly wave his fingers, forgetting that one hand was effectively immobile with blisters. "Oh dear, a noble lady like yourself," he teased. "Whatever would people think of you and your knight?" She shoved him in the shoulder, turning red.

"It wasn’t him," she sniffed. "Anyway, I’m twenty-three, not sixteen, it’s hardly uncommon." He giggled sharply, starting to internally go over the long process of making another antidote while still needling Belle.

"So were you seventeen when it happened?"

"Were  _you?_ " she shot back. He summoned his ingredients down to the table. Belle could help mix.

"I was twenty-one," he said, thinking of Lenna Bardan’s face when he brought her and her husband’s daughter back from war, ogre blood on him from cloak to boot. It was a much more important memory than their first time, behind the sheep pen when he came to collect the wool. "A very long time ago."

He set Belle to chopping up cornflower roots, wondering if she ever reminisced or regretted her experience. Any perception of anything so foolish as  _jealousy_ , or  _curiosity_ , was just anger, born out of the incredible stinging and itching on his hand. _  
_

He was sure any saliva would help, maiden’s or no, at this point, and switched to snapping back orders for the antidote.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BIG WARNING FOR NON-GRAPHIC MENTIONS OF NON-CON
> 
> repeatinglitanies prompted: belle leaves the dark castle pregnant. she spends 28 years as gold’s live-in maid with memories of being raped and impregnated by gold, refusing to leave because gold has custody of her son.when rumplestiltskin awakens, he is at a loss at what to do. he wants to treat her like a queen. but to do so would raise regina’s suspicions

The child was young. That was in his favor. Rumpelstiltskin braced himself, wincing as 28 years of walking on his ruined ankle as Gold made getting up from his kneeling position in front of the toilet a torture. He splashed his face with cold water and rinsed his mouth. God….Regina couldn’t just make him aware, could she? No, he had clear memories of getting his maid, Marabel—Belle—drunk, so drunk she could barely stand, and forcing himself upon her.

God.

He remembered, at least, what had really happened: it had been sweet and slow and tender. Sober. Happy.

Belle was upstairs now, giving Andrew his bath. He didn’t know his son’s real name, only his curse name. His stomach lurched again, and this time he spat acid into the sink.

She would come downstairs and read and wait him out, wait til he went to bed, and then go to her room, when there was less chance of him coming after her. Because Gold—Gold would come after her, at least once a month.

It was only eight, but he left her favorite book out next to her chair in the kitchen, and started the kettle, adding chamomile. Belle came downstairs like clockwork, just as he set the tea next to the book. She stopped short at the door, surprised to see him in here at this time.

"I was just heading to bed," he said, and left. He wouldn’t sleep, but he wasn’t going to stay down here and scare her.

This would be a long road.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous prompted: southern gothic au

The boards of the porch creaked under Belle’s feet, and she paused, holding her breath in a frozen crouch while she listened to the soft sounds of the night. A few crickets and toads, and the chittering of the last bats.

 

There was a candle stub in her pocket, an old razor in her shoe, and a king snake in a pillowcase on her back. She crept forward a few feet, until the worn, weathered brass of the door handle was within reach of her outstretched hand. It was shockingly cool under her fingers in the warm summer night. She turned it, wincing and freezing at the click that sounded loud in her ears.

The door creaked as she pushed it open, and she couldn’t help but go still again, though she would be obvious, a pale white shape in the dark doorway.

The house was old, and there were rugs on the floor, which muffled her footsteps as she inched forward, heart beating into her throat. She couldn’t see much of anything in the utter dark, no matter how she flicked her eyes around. What was on the walls? On his shelves? No one ever came inside this house.

She knelt down and took her shoes off, pulling out the razor blade. She could go the rest of the way in stocking feet, and she barely hesitated as she turned the final doorknob.

Her stride was broken as she tripped over something on the floor, which moved, and she stifled a shriek as she fell, trying to hold her hands up and catch herself at the same time.

The moving thing that she had stumbled over was still moving, and her heart nearly stopped as she realized it wasn’t a dog, but a man—

"What on earth?" he was muttering, and then a hand was wrapping firmly around her wrist, and she was pinned on the ground, hand with the blade captured, a knee on her stomach. It was certainly Gold—now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see his distinctive long hair silhouetted in the faint moonlight from the window.

"Please don’t hurt me," she said, feeling her little candle crush into nothing under nervous fingers.

"Hmm," he said, and then jerked her to her feet, twisting one arm behind her back. He had a hand free now, and used it to strike a match and light a candle on a small nightstand.

He had been sleeping on the rug, not in his bed, which was why she had stepped on him. Belle let him take the pillowcase from her, and then pried her right hand open, extracting the blade ungently.

"A murderer, not a robber," he reflected, and shook her. "Why shouldn’t I hurt you again?"

"I’m not a murderer!" she protested. "I just came to cut off some of your hair!"

"What?" he said, and started as the pillowcase shifted slightly. "Is there an animal inside there?" Belle sighed, and wished he would let go of her arm, which hurt.

"I need witch’s hair," she said. "And a flame, a snake, and blood." Gold turned her so she was looking at him, face intense and confused.

"There’s no such thing as witchcraft," he said. "Or if there is, I don’t practice it." He shoved her back, letting go of her, and took the pillowcase, letting the snake out the window as she regained her balance.

"I need some magic," she said glumly. He frowned at her razor blade and put it into the drawer of the nightstand.

"No, you don’t. Go home." He took her arm and walked her to the open front door. "If you need real help, you can come and  _knock_ , during the day.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> teaandfire prompted: coffee shop AU

"Americano, two shots, with caramel syrup, please." Gold heard the customer, but for some reason, Ruby felt compelled to repeat the order back to him as she scrawled ‘Bella’ onto a paper mug.

 

"I got it," he said shortly, tipping two shots of espresso into the bottom of the mug and adding the syrup. He swirled it a little, not really invested in whether or not the latest businesswoman who frequented the soon-to-fail Starbucks competitor had the flavor distributed evenly through her drink. Hot water, then a lid, and he walked over to the dispensing counter.

"Bella," he announced loudly. The woman who walked over was a few inches shorter than him, with very blue eyes. She held her hand out.

"It’s Belle, actually," she corrected. It was the same accent that had placed the order. He raised an eyebrow.

"Does it really matter? It’s the right coffee." She rolled her eyes right back at him.

"Yeah, because if you don’t want to lose the small amount of people who come by here, you should learn your customers’ names."

That…actually made sense.

"If you’re so smart, why aren’t you running a coffee shop?" he said, because most people he needled either ignored him in their rush or told him to fuck off. He was probably getting fired soon.

"Why are you working in one?" she returned, and smiled as she sipped on the coffee.

"Beverage making is the last of the great arts," he said guardedly. "Also, it’s hard to get a job after prison."

Belle sputtered into her mug, then laughed.

"All right, man. See you tomorrow." She left, leaving the shop empty, and Ruby threw a towel at his head.

"Don’t snap at customers."

"She just said she’d come back!" he protested.

"She thought you were kidding about the convict thing!" Gold shrugged.

"It was a frame job," he said.

"Oh my god, just—check the flavoring bottles, okay?"


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> repeatinglitanies prompted: "dark castle prompt: rumpelstiltskin doesn't know it. but belle likes getting into his personal space because she thinks his reactions are adorable."

His maid kept bumbling into him, like a small, confused turtle, tripping into his way at every turn. Belle did a good job of keeping things clean, actually, for a noblewoman, but she didn’t do too well at courtly behavior, then. He was pretty sure noblewomen weren’t meant to be constantly tripping over their own feet.

He’d always meant to get her proper clothes, but he made sure to hem the skirts short enough that Belle wouldn’t step on them and break her neck. The small heels on the shoes should help with that, too.

It was quite disconcerting to end up with her against his back, or holding his hands. She was so warm—more like an overexcited puppy, then, hurrying about, seeming eager about her less than glorious tasks. He didn’t know how to feel about the way she smelled like sage and lemons, either, when she got close, or laundry soap. The scent made him want to be closer, though there was no sense to that.

She always smiled and shook her head at him when he stepped away, and touched his hands, as if his lizard’s skin wasn’t revolting to her.

It was most strange.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> letsgoanddream prompted: dark castle prompt: belle is sick and rumple wants to care for her without it being too obvious that he worries.

Belle hadn’t gotten out of bed in two days, except to stagger to the bathroom. Then, she simply brought her blanket and sat on the floor, shivering, and waiting to throw up again.

Rumpelstiltskin had been away those two days: she hoped he wouldn’t see the disarray his castle had been left in when he returned and assume she was shirking her duties. Hopefully he would be back soon, because she was thirsty, and had only bit of her washing pitcher left. She was hungry too, but would only throw up food, so that didn’t count.

She was sleeping when he returned, though it was more of a cold swoon, soaking in her own sweat on the stone floor. Strong arms picked her up, and she would have been alarmed and nauseous, were she not so tired.

A warm voice tsked over her, and somehow, she was clean and in a warm nightdress, and being carried somewhere. It must be Rumpelstiltskin.

"I’m sorry," she croaked, as a rough hand cradled her head and lifted a cup to her lips. He was so warm, and she tried to move closer to him: were they sitting? She couldn’t open her eyes.

"Shhh," he said, voice thin. "I can’t have my maid catching her death." A thumb wiped water and saliva from her lip. "Place will get filthy."


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> queueingtocomplain prompted: he brushes her hair

He had more or less bullied his maid into helping him catch fish in the stream, and for all that Belle had seemed to enjoy it—except for the part where she tumbled into the snowmelt—it was his fault that she was sunburned, a little scratched, and with her hair resembling a cross between a bird’s nest and a blackberry bush.

He had a large basin full of swirling blue and violet fish, though, magic sparkling in their trailing fins, so it was all really worth it.

Belle was wincing over the dinner things when he came down from placing the basin in his tower and adding some greenery. He snapped his fingers, fetching a small pot of balm for her sunburned cheeks and arms, and held it out to her. She plucked it from his palm with a small smile, as if amused by something he couldn’t see, and he stepped behind her, fussing at her hair. It was truly a snarled mess, one that needed either a long rinse with lotions, or a pair of clever hands.

He stifled a giggle as Belle spread the balm over her nose and cheeks, and held his hand out, calling her hairbrush, and then a comb, into his hand.She didn’t object as his fingers moved through her hair: it was dry now, and such a lovely auburn color. The curls were soft under his fingers as he moved brush and comb through them, and eventually, her head was once again covered in smooth, soft tresses. He took longer than he needed to, perhaps, arranging them, but they were soft and smelled like river, like Belle.

She didn’t mind, either: she was making happy little noises as she spread the potion over her arms. Rumpelstiltskin banished the few red scratches from her hands and relinquished her hair with reluctance.

"There," he said, quietly. "All neat." Belle faced him and curtsied fancifully, smiling her thanks.

"Thank you." She clasped his hands briefly, and he had to stare at them for a brief moment before returning to his business.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> itssandgirl prompted: curtain war

There was no reason for the curtains to be shut in the winter, like at home. Cold winds did not send their icy tendrils into the great room, even though the fire grate was usually grey and empty. The sunlight off the mountain snow was brilliantly white, making the room sing with brightness. Belle liked it, the idea of having winter and light with it.

Rumpelstiltskin never mentioned her habit of opening the curtains, but whenever she left the room and returned, they would be closed once more.

If he would be petty, so would she: if the brightness hurt his eyes, he could  _say_ so. And with winter on its way out, it was downright unnatural to have them shut too often.

So she was back on the ladder as usual, and yanking at the curtains that were more persistent than usual, until there was a tearing sound, a sickening sway and drop, and strong arms underneath her.

Rumpelstiltskin had caught her in his arms, in the midst of his taunting, and was staring at her as though he had never seen her before. She couldn’t help but do the same: in the bright sunshine, his grey-green skin was laced with gold and copper, and his strange eyes were wide and surprised.

He let his left hand release her, and she was stumbling back onto her feet as he moved away. She nearly took a half step closer to him, to hug him in thanks, but he was skidding away, and she stilled the itching in her fingers.


End file.
